Fable 3: Vignettes
by M.J.Jewett
Summary: Short collections of the world of Albion. All characters and some dialogue belong to Lionhead Studios.
1. Chapter 1

_Ohh, so the Albion saga continues! I couldn't leave well enough alone. Here are the usual disclaimers: Fable belongs to Lionhead Studios, all characters and some dialogue also belongs strictly to Lionhead Studios. This is going to be a little different from the Hero of Bowerstone – mostly I'll be writing vignettes. Bits and pieces of the Fable 3 story, conversations that we never heard and my own telling of the events that took place. I've decided not to choose between genders. So don't be surprised our Hero Prince will sometimes be a Princess and vice versa. So where does our fable begin? _

End of an Era

Yesterday the greatest champion of Albion was put to rest. The nation outside the vast city of Bowerstone bowed beneath the sorrow; all shops were closed, banners hung half-mast and thousands stood outside the castle gates in uniform black, all silent in universal respect for the leader who had brought together a realm.  
The grand procession had rolled through the city, parting sobbing subjects who shifted away from the box like a grieving tide away from the shore. If there was ever a symbol of the magnitude of greatness the Hero had achieved it was the way in which her nation laid her down to rest in the crypts beneath castle Fairfax. Great black stallions pulled the hearse, gear gleaming, dark plumes of feathers jutting from the bridles. The city Guard, dressed in their finest, walked solemnly beside the casket; the ostentatious mahogany box itself draped with the flag of Albion, a sprinkling of carnations lent a burst of color against the somber grays and blacks.  
Following directly behind in a carriage of equally somber coloring was the Royal family. The eldest, Logan, was to be crowned King and new ruler of Albion. Some thought he looked pale and young, too young for such an immense responsibility. He was barely a legal adult, that is in the eyes of Albion's law, nineteen years of age. Too young perhaps to rule over a nation and his younger sibling, the Princess. A girl child, not yet ten years, face mute and miserable under the terrible grief of losing her last parent. She curled into the side of Sir Walter, whose stalwart frame seemed to give some comfort as the unbending and rigid form of her brother could not.  
The great warrior Queen's retainer, Sir Walter, seemed to accept the weight of death as a soldier who has already lost too much and has seen more than he could ever want. Death was a way of his life though he never thought he would outlive his closest friend who had seemed immortal.  
The Hero of Bowerstone was dead and no one knew if her legacy had died with her. A Hero at the throne had meant powerful change and she had managed just that; Albion was the greatest nation in the known world. And it was the welfare of this nation that now rested on Logan's young shoulders.

They thought he couldn't hear them, but he could. The Great Hall of castle Fairfax crowded Logan with the stench of perfume and too many bodies. The crowning of a King was an event not to be missed; anyone who had influence in the realm was there. The old Queen had held little truck with social events, many in that great room had never been there before. _Breeding never lies_, he heard whispered more than once.  
Logan never counted his mother's upbringing against her. To him the story was one of remarkable success and he was fiercely proud to inherit her blood. Secretly he often wondered how long, and if, it took for Heroic blood to manifest itself. He could do great things, he had no doubt.

A small hand tugged on his own and he looked down into the red-rimmed eyes of his sister.

Relenting, he scooped her up into his arms and the ladies sighed in admiration at the sight of the two siblings. The old Queen had been, even by the exacting standards of the court, a handsome woman. On Logan her firm jaw line and straight nose made for a fairytale Prince; all he was missing was the white horse. The golden crown contrasted nicely with the tousled black hair; something he had inherited from his late father.

The steward hustled towards the Royal pair and Logan gently put the Princess into his open arms.

"I apologize mostly profusely, your Highness! She escaped as I was securing the Baron von Orfen in his rooms, the old curmudgeon is very set in his ways."

"Not at all, Jasper. See that the Samarkand dignitaries are placed in the south wing after you settle the Princess."

Jasper bowed his head and bustled away radiating efficiency.

Logan, King of Albion, let conversation wash over his ears. Much of it was reminiscing on the extraordinary feats of the warrior Queen of old; her amazing longevity, the reconstruction of Albion's dwindling military forces, the Scholar's Library of Brightwall and her own numerous victories that rendered her nearly god-like.

The night spun on like a fractured waltz of glittering jewels, expensive fabrics and fragments of conversation of those who grasped for power.

"-I'm certain His Majesty realizes the need for endorsement. Albion's Exploration Confederation has yet to reach its hand to unexplored regions! Just imagine the profit in which you might gain; untold riches in metal and gems, shorter trade routes and the eventual expansion of Albion itself-"

"-the need for stricter enforcement! Just the other day I was nearly _accosted_ by a tavern frequenting..._degenerate!_"

" –read my most recent work concerning those _fiends_, those diabolical monochromatic terrors; _puffins_. Perhaps His Majesty would be interested in hearing my most recent subject of study? "

"Mr. Mourir, sadly I have a prior enga-"

"_Hobbes_, your Majesty! A goldmine of complex sociological behavior right beneath our noses! I look forward to _years_ of close study if it weren't for the unfortunate fact the last guard I hired ended up in pieces, and quite possibly in various stomachs… however, having heard of His Majesty's prowess and obvious heritage perhaps…?"

"Sir Walter! Do excuse me, urgent business you understand-"

Logan's desperate grip on Sir Walter's arm made the older man chuckle as he allowed the King to lead him away from the gleaming eyes of the novelist.

They found a relatively quiet corner in an alcove overlooking the city. Here, Logan allowed himself a small moment of weakness and let out a long heartfelt sigh.

"How did she put up with it?" he wondered quietly.

Walter let out a gruff chuckle, unable to keep a strain of pain out of his voice.

"She didn't, told em' to bugger off when she felt like it! Never one to let position go to her head. You wouldn't do so bad to take a note from her book and not let yourself be swayed by pretty words. Just the thoughts of an old soldier, Your Majesty."

Logan gazed at the man who had been a second father to him and his sister. Tonight he looked far older; a burly and gruff soldier who still dressed in the uniform of his youth. Deep red in color, more patchwork and jagged stitches than someone of his position should wear. You wouldn't know to look at him that he was titled and held one of the highest positions of the court.

Logan placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You know I value your opinion, Walter. As my mother did. Not to fear, I plan on making my reign a memorable one – we are ever marching towards progress and we need to face it head on."

He hadn't heard him approach and that was unsettling. Logan prided himself on his reflexes and self-awareness but the man who appeared like a wraith took him by surprise.

"_Well put_, Your Majesty! As expected from one of such _illustrious _heritage. "

Logan stared, momentarily taken back.

He was very tall for a native of Albion; easily towering over Logan who was not small by any means. The visage of the man was meant to impress, intimidate and overwhelm and he succeeded in doing just that; ebony frock coat, trousers and gleaming boots, dove gray gloves and several diamonds that sparkled not-so modestly from his snow white cravat and cuffs.  
The man himself had a well-cut square face and long aquiline nose that was made to gaze down upon the lower masses. A closely trimmed black beard that outlined the perfect line of his jaw and lips and longish dark hair tied back that spoke of a fashion of an older era.

The man's voice matched the eyes; both burned. Each word dripped with duel innuendo that said the owner both found amusement and contempt in the world around him.

"Ah! How rude of me to forget introductions; I'm certain you've heard of me-"

"_Reaver_!"

Walter growled, taking an aggressive step forward, hand gripping the pommel of his sword.

Reaver chuckled, looking maliciously pleased.

"The royal guard dog. _Delightful_. How…_aged_ you look, Sir Walter. Life not as rosy as you'd like?"

"_Shut your mouth_, you filthy-"

"Ah, ah, ah- now, now. I'm here to pay my respects. Whatever our relationship was I always had some respect for Sparrow; there is something about a woman who can routinely defy death though; sadly, it caught up with her in the end."

Heavy silence fell over the small group at the blunt remark. Logan cleared his throat and said in a cold voice,

"One of the Four who brought the downfall of Lucien, yes, of course, I've heard of you. I was led to understand Bloodstone was more to your taste than our stifling city."

Reaver chuckled. "The benefit of long experience, Your Majesty; a well-developed palate of…_tastes_."

The lingering look left no room for doubt of the meaning of those softly spoken words. Logan felt Walter tense beside him and Reaver smoothly bowed.

"I look forward to His Majesty's reign; should you need my _humble_ services-"

"_He won't_!" barked Walter.

Reaver simply laughed low in his throat and melted back into the crowd.

Walter rounded on Logan and stabbed a finger towards him.

"What did your mother tell you about Reaver!"

Logan looked at the red-faced fury of his mentor and replied evenly,

"Not much; mostly when his name was mentioned it was followed by a word that would get my mouth washed out with soap. Some sort of pirate or criminal, wasn't he?"

"_Is_, Your Majesty. Don't ever forget it. In fact, have nothing to do with him at all!"

"_All right_, Walter, I won't."

Mollified Walter relaxed and the two returned to gaze at the city that blazed with light in the darkness of night.

"One door closes and another opens." Logan said, mostly to himself.

Walter looked at Logan's painfully young face and felt sympathy for the new King who had just taken a kingdom onto his shoulders.

"I will be there beside you, Majesty. As long as you need me."

"Thank you, Walter."

(authors note: hey, as a point of discussion what do you think the relationship between Logan and Reaver is? Is there basis for yaoi or do you think it was more of Reaver yanking Logan's chain and loving getting a reaction out of the normally unemotional King of Albion? Would Logan ever stoop to a physical relationship with one of his counselors? I'm sure Reaver would try but Logan IS the King and Reaver isn't stupid enough to jeopardize his position as power behind the throne. On the other hand Reaver is the uncontested master of nailing anything that breathes... Just thinking of more ideas for short stories in the Fable 3 universe)


	2. Chapter 2

Monster

_The final moments of poor Charles Griffiths – 'He faked his death. He tried to flee. But Reaver would not let him be' _

Time was up. Charles Griffiths days were numbered and those weren't even in the double digits. The man shouldn't have known- _couldn't have_! The body he had substituted for his own had been charred beyond recognition; it was one of the oldest tricks of the Bloodstone Grifters, the old Bait Em' and Burn Em'. But _he had known _and Charles saw his shadow everywhere. Saw the features in his mind's eye, the curling lip, the deceptively frail-looking long-fingered hands and those bottomless, pitiless eyes fixed with cold certainty that a finely crafted 50 caliber 'Dragon's Breath' bullet would soon be finding new lodging in his cranium.  
The man was a monster. Cold sweat soaked his wool jerkin as he pushed a moisture-laden plant out of the way; Mourning Wood was a place only the gods-forsaken went but it suited him just fine for the moment. Maybe there was still a chance to escape – over the horizon he was sure he had seen a hint of worn brick and stone. The old Fort, where he might find a hiding place until this mess blew over.  
He wondered if there were any prayers to be offered up to the gods; not that they seemed to listen. Not that they would have reason to listen now. Charles had spent a better portion of his life being a despair to his mum and a minor annoyance to the authorities.

He felt a whine clawing its way deep from his throat. He didn't deserve this! For a man to spend the last days of his life scurrying over the countryside like a mouse until the over-groomed, preening cat pulled the trigger? No one deserved that. Better to be torn apart by balverines, or even eaten by hobbes!  
Three days this harum-scarum romp through the countryside! Three days of frozen terror, of _feeling_ the business end of that beautiful pistol pointed at his tender backside. He could hear him laughing; a mild amusement, the thrill of a chase, the cold and disengaged interest of the hunter stalking a lame deer.

Damn Broderick's black soul to the lowest levels of hell! Damn his own culpability; Charles gut had told him to back out of the deal but Broderick had been so _certain_ it could be done and finally all the money to be had won him over.

Once Charles had discovered _who_ was at the end of the grift his mind went white in numb terror. Found the legend sipping cognac in one of the more reputable taverns, stammered and hawed and blurted out names to save himself, _explained _it weren't his fault, he was the victim while those dark eyes never moved, nor gave a spark of interest or life. And when his stammering had trailed off, swallowed by growing silence until his voice was only an ineffectual whisper Reaver had gently laid the crystal cut glass of liquid on the table and drew the infamous weapon. Rubbed a thumb along its sinuous curves and cold gleaming metal and allowed a long curling smile to grace his lips. Then said one word, dropping it into the silence as a stone falls into a bottomless well,

"Run."

With true desperation born out of a previously unknown desire to live Charles had done everything in his meager intellect to throw him off his scent. It hadn't worked.

Wheezing, he fell to one knee into muddy ground as insects buzzed angrily around him. Too tired to care, to even lift a hand to swat them away from his eyes, his mouth. Made a few staggering steps and stumbled out of foliage onto – _thank the gods!_- a pathway lit by torch and curving around to the looming building.  
He began the homeward stretch, punctuating each step with desperate pleas.

_I will make regular payments to the temples. _Past the bend now, a little more swamp ahead.

_I will return them jewels to them nobs I took em' from, give back those boots to that beggar I stoles them off, and even though I already ate that offering to the Temple of Posterity I can finds a nice apple or summat- _staggered through marsh, _almost_, the great looming structure rising from the trees.

_Please, somebody,  
please, a little further,_

_ I'll turn me life around, be a monk! Be  
_

_ whatever you want me to be, the doors –  
_

_ so close!_

_Just please let me -_


End file.
